and if she had any claims upon my father, I will cer-
tainly see her; bnt I am busy now. I have not been
— well. I have been neglecting a great many things,
and now that I feel a little better, I have a great deal
to do."

"Uh, sir, it isn't lost time as makes a poor creature's
heart to sing for joy!" said Mrs. Gilsland. She was a
formidable housekeeper, but she was a kind woman;
and somehow a subtle perception that their young
master had been in trouble had crept into the mind of
the household. "Which it's gi'ieved as we've all been
to see as you was not — well," she added, with a
curtsey; "it's been the watching and the anxiety; and
so good as you was, sir, to the Squire. But poor
Susan has five mile to go, and a child in arms, as is a
load to carry; and her poor sick husband at home.
And it was borne in upon them as perhaps for old
Sommerville's sake — "

"Well, who was he?" said Hugh, with languid
interest, a little fretted by the interruption, yet turning
his steps towards the housekeeper's room, from which
a gleam of firelight shone, at the end of a long cor-
ridor. He did not know anything about old Som-
merville; the name awakened no associations in his
mind, and even the housekeeper's long narrative as she
followed him caught his attention only by intervals.
She was so anxious to produce an elfect for her protegee's
sake that she began with an elaborate description of
old Sommerville's place and privileges, which whizzed
past Hugh's ear Avithout ever touching his mind. But



246 MADONNA MARY.

he was too good-liearted to resist the picture of the
poor woman who had five miles to go, and a baby and
a sick husband. She was sitting basking before the
fire in Mrs. Gilsland's room, poor soul, thinking as
little about old Sommerville as the young Squire Avas;
her heart beating high with anxiety about the new
lodge — beating as high as if it was a kingdom she
had hopes of conquering-, with excitement as profound
as that which moved Hugh himself when he thought of
his own fortune hanging in the balance, and of the
name and place and condition of which perhaps he was
but an usurper. It was as much to poor Susan to have
the lodge as it was to him to have Earlston, or rather
a great deal more. And he went in, putting a stop to
Mrs. Gilsland's narrative, and began to talk to the poor
suitor; and the firelight played pleasantly on the young
man's handsome face, as he stood full in its ruddy il-
lumination to hear her story, Avith his own anxiety
lying at his heart like a stone. To look at this scene,
it looked the least interesting of all that Avas going on
at that moment in the history of the Ochterlony family
— less important than Av^hat was taking place in Liver-
pool, where Mary was — or eA^en than poor Aunt
Agatha's solitary tears over Winnie's letter, which had
just been taken in to her, and which Avent to her heart.
The new lodge might neA^er be built, and Hugh Ochter-
lony might never have it in his power to do anything
for poor Susan, who was old Sommerville's daughter.
But at least he was not hard-hearted, and it was a kind
of natural grace and duty to hear what the poor soul
had to say.



MADONNA MARY. 247



CHAPTER XVIII.



It was morning when Mary arrived in Liverpool,
early morning, chilly and grey. She had been detained
on the road by the tronblesome delays of a cross route,
and the fresh breath of the autumnal morning chilled
her to the heart. And she had not come with any
distinct plan. She did not know what she was going
to do. It had seemed to her as if the mere sight of
her would set her boy right, had there been evil in his
mind; and she did not know that there was any evil
in his mind. She knew nothing of what was in Mr.
Penrose's letter, which had driven Hugh to such despair.
She did not even know whether Will had so much as
mentioned his discovery to Uncle Penrose, or whether
he might not have fled there, simply to get away from
the terrible thought of his mother's disgrace. If it
were so, she had but to take her boy in her arms, to
veil her face with sliame, yet raise it with conscious
honour, and tell him how it all was. This, perhaps,
was what she most thought of doing — to show him
the rights of the story, of which he had only heard the
evil-seeming side, and to reconcile him to herself and
the world, and his life, on all of which a shadow must
rest, as Mary thought, if any shadow rested on his
mother. By times she was grieved with AVill — "angry,"
as he would have said — to think he had gone away
in secret without unfolding his troubles to the only
creature who could clear them up; but by times it
seemed to her as though it was only his tenderness of



248 MADONNA MAKY.

her, his delicacy for her, that had driven him away.
That he could not endure the appearance of a stain
upon her, that he was unable to let her know the pos-
sibility of any suspicion — this was chiefly what Mrs.
Ochterlony thought. And it made her heart yearn to-
wards the boy. Anything about Earlston, or Hugh, or
the property, or Will's rights, had not crossed her
mind; even Mrs. Kirkman's hints had proved useless,
so far as that was concerned. Such a thing seemed to
her as impossible as to steal or to murder. When they
were babies, a certain thrill of apprehension had moved
her whenever she saw any antagonism between the
brothers; but when the moment of realizing it came,
she was unable to conceive of such a horror. To think
of Will harming Hugh ! It was impossible — - more than
impossible; and thus as she drove through th« unknown
streets in the early bustle of the morning, towards the
distant suburb in which Mr. Penrose lived, her thoughts
rejected all tragical suppositions. The interview would
be painful enough in any case, for it was hard for a
mother to have to defend herself, and vindicate her
good fame, to her boy; but still it could have been no-
thing but Will's horror at such a revelation — his
alarm at the mere idea of such a suspicion ever be-
coming known to his mother — his sense of disenchant-
ment in the entire world following his discovery, that
made him go away: and this she had it in her power
to dissipate for ever. This was how she Avas thinking
as she approached Mr. Penrose's great mansion, looking
out eagerly to see if any one might be visible at the
windows. She saw no one, and her heart beat high as
she looked up at the blank big house, and thought of
the young heart that would flutter and perhaps sicken



MADONNA MARY. 249

at the sight of her, and then expand into an infinite
content. For by this time slie liad so reasoned herself
into reassurance, and the light and breath of the morn-
ing had so invigorated her mind, that she had no more
doubt that her explanations would content him, and
clear away every cloud from his thoughts, than she had
of his being her son, and loyal as no sou of hers could
fail to be.

Tlie servants did not make objections to her as
they had done to Will. They admitted her to the cold,
uninhabited drawing-room, and informed her that Mr.
Penrose was out, but that young Mr. Ochterlony was
certainly to be found. "Tell him it is his mother,"
said Mary, with her heart yearning over him ; and then
she sat doA^ni to wait. There was nothing after all in
the emergency to tremble at. She smiled at herself
when she thought of her own horrible apprehensions,
and of the feelings with which she had hurried from
the Cottage. It would be hard to speak of the suspicion
to which she was subjected, but then she could set it
to rest for ever: and Avhat did the pang matter? Thus
she sat with a wistful smile on her face, and waited.
The moments passed , and she heard sounds of steps
outside, and something that sounded like the hurried
shutting of the great door; but no eager foot coming to
meet her — no rapid entrance like that she had looked
for. She sat still until the smile became rigid on her lip,
and a wonderful depression came to her soul. Was he
not coming? Could it bo that he judged her without
hearing her, and would not see his mother? Then her
heart woke up again when she heard some one ap-
proaching, but it was only the servant who had opened
the door.



250 MADONNA MAUY.

"I beg your pardon, ma'am," said the man, with
hesitation, "but it appears I made a mistake. Young
Mr. Ochterlony was not — I mean he has gone out.
Perhaps, if it was anything of importance, you could
wait."

"He has gone out? so early? — - surely not after he
knew I was here?" said Mary, wildly; and then she
restrained herself with an effort. "It is something of
importance," she said, giving a groan in her heart,
which Avas not audible. "I am his mother, and it is
necessary that I should see him. Yes, I will wait; and
if you could send some one to tell him , if you know
where he is — "

"I should think, ma'am, he is sure to be home to
luncheon," said the servant, evading this demand. To
luncheon — and it was only about ten o'clock in the
morning now. Mary clasped her hands together to
keep herself from crying out. Could he have been out
before she arrived — could he have fled to avoid her?
She'asked herself the question in a kind of agony; but
Mr. Penrose's man stood blank and respectful at the
door, and offered no point of appeal. She could not
take him into her counsel, or consult him as to what it
all meant; and yet she was so anxious, so miserable,
so heart-struck by this suspense, that she could not let
him go without an effort to find something out.

"Has he gone with his uncle?" she said. "Perhaps
I might find him at Mr. Penrose's office. No? Or
perhaps you can tell me if there is any place he is in
the habit of going to, or if he always goes out so
early. I want very much to see him; 1 have been
travelling all night; it is very important," Mary added,
wistfully looking in the attendant's face.



MADONNA MARY. 2.51

Mr. Penrose's butler was very solemn and precise,
but yet there was somethin/i," in the sight of her re-
strained distress which moved him. "I don't know as
I have remarked what time the young gentleman goes
out," he said. "He's early this morning — mostly he
varies a bit — but I don't make no doubt as he'll be
in to luncheon." When he had said this the man did
not go away, but stood with a mixture of curiosity and
sympathy, sorry for the new-comer, and wondering
what it all meant. If JMary herself could bxit have
made out what it all meant! She turned away, with
the blood, as she thought, all going back upon her
heart, and the currents of life flowing backward
to their source. Had he fled from her? What did it
mean?

In this state of suspense Mrs. Ochterlony passed the
morning. She had a maid sent to her, and was shown,
though with a little wonder and hesitation, into a sleep-
ing room, where she mechanically took off" her travel-
ling wraps and assumed her indoor appeai-ance so far as
that was possible. It was a great, still, empty, resound-
ing house; the rooms were large, coldly furnished, still
looking new for want of use, and vacant of any kind
of occupation or interest. Mary came downstairs again,
and placed herself at one of the great windoAvs in the
drawing-room. She would not go out, even to seek
Will, lest she might miss him by the way. She went
and sat down by the window, and gazed out upon the
strip of suburban road which was visible through the
shrubberies, feeling her heart beat when any figure,
however unlike her boy, appeared upon it. It might
be he, undiscerniblc in the distance, or it might be
some one from him, some messenger or ambassador. It



252 MADONNA MARY.

was wliat might be called a handsome room, but it was
vacant, destitute of everything which could give it
interest, with some trifling picture-books on the table
and meaningless knick-nacks. When Mrs. Ochterlony
was sick of sitting watching at the window she would
get up and walk round it, and look at the well-bound
volumes on the table, and feel herself grow wild in the
excess of her energy and vehemence, by conti-ast with
the deadly calm of her surroundings. "What was it to
this house, or its master, or the other human creatures
in it, that she was beating her Avings thus, in the
silence, against the cage? Thus she sat, or stood, or
walked about, the whole long morning, counting the
minutes on the time-piece or on her watch, and feeling
every minute an hour. Where had he gone? had he fled
to escape? or was his absence natural and accidental?
These questions went through her head, one upon an-
other, with increasing commotion and passion, until she
found herself unable to rest, and felt her veins tingling
and her pulses throbbing in a wild harmony. It seemed
years since she bad arrived wlien one o'clock struck,
and a few minutes later the sound of a gong thrilled
through the silence. This was for luncheon. It was
not a bell, which might be heard outside and quickened
the steps of any one Avho might be coming. Mary
stood still and w^atched at her window, but nobody
came. And then the butler, whose curiosity was more
and more roused, came ixpstairs with steady step, and
shoes that creaked in a deprecating, apologetic way, to
ask if she would go down to luncheon, and to regret
respectfully that the young gentleman had not yet come
in. "No doubt, ma'am, if he had known you were
coming, he'd have been here," the man said, not



MADONNA MARY. 253

without an inquiring look at her, which IMi'S. Ochterlony
was vaguely conscious of. She went downstairs with a
kind of mechanical obedience, feeling it an ease to go
into another room, and find another window at which
she could look out. She could see another bit of road
further off, and it served to fill her for the moment
with renewed hope. There, at least, she must surely
see him coming. But the moments still kept going
on, gliding off the steady hand of the time-piece like
so many months or years. And still Will did not
come.

It was all the more dreadful to her, because she
had been totally unprepared for any such trial. It had
never occun-ed to her that her boy, though he had run
away, would avoid her now. By this time even the
idea that he could be avoiding her went out of her
mind, and she began to think some accident had hap-
pened to him. He was yoixng and careless, a country
boy — and there was no telling what temble thing
might have happened on those thronged streets, which
had felt like Pandemonium to Mary's unused faculties.
And she did not know where to go to look for him, or
what to do. In her terror she began to question the
man, who kept coming and going into the room, some-
times venturing to invite her attention to the dishes,
which were growing cold, sometimes merely looking at
her, as he went and came. She asked about her boy
— what he had been doing since he came — if he
were not in the habit of going to his uncle's office —
if he had made any acquaintances — if there was
anything that could account for his absence? "Perhaps
he wont out sight-seeing," said Mary, "pcrliaps he is
with his uncle at the office. He was always very fond



254 MADONNA MARY.

of shipping." But slie got very doiibtfnl and hesitat-
ing replies — replies which were so uncertain that
fear blazed up within her-, and the slippery docks
and dangerous Avater, the great carts in the streets
and the string of carriages, came up before her eyes
again.

Thus the time passed till it was evening. Mary
could not, or rather would not, believe her own senses,
and yet it was true. Shadows stole into the corners,
and a star, which it made her heart sick to see, peeped
out in the green-blue sky — and she Avent from one
room to another, Avatching the two bits of road. First
the one opening, which was fainter and farther off, then
the other, which was overshadowed by the trees, yet
visible and near. Every time she changed the point of
watching, she felt sure that he must be coming. But
yet the stars peeped out, and the lamps were lighted on
the road, and her boy did not appear. She was a wo-
man used to self-restraint, and. but for her flitting up
and down stairs, and the persistent way she kept by
the window, the servants might not have noticed any-
thing remarkable about her; but they had all possession
of one fact which quickened their curiosity — and the
respectable butler prowled about watching her, in a
way which would have u-ritated Mrs. Ochterlony, had
she been at sufficient leisure in her mind to remark
him. When the time came that the lamp must be
lighted and the windows closed, it went to her heart
like a blow. She had to reason to herself that her
watch could make no difference — could not bring him
a moment sooner or later — and yet to be shut out
from that one point of interest was hard. They told
her Mr. Penrose was expected immediately, and that



MADONNA MARY. 255

no doubt the youug gentleman woukl be with him. To
.see Will only in his uncle's presence was not what
]\Iaiy had been thinking of — but yet it was better
than this suspense-, and now that her eyes could serve
her no longer, she sat listening, feeling every sound
echo in her brain, and herself surrounded, as it were,
by a rustle of passing feet and a roll of carriages that
came and passed and brought nothing to her. And the
house was so still and vacant, and resounded with
every movement — even with her own foot, as she
changed her seat, though her foot had always been so
light. That day's watching had made a change upon
her, which a year under other circumstances would not
have made. Her brow was contracted with lines un-
known to its broad serenity, her eyes looked out ea-
gerly from the lids which had grown curved and trian-
gular with anxiety, her mouth was drawn together and
colourless. The long, speechless, vacant day, with no
occupation in it but that of watching and listening,
with its sense of time lost and opportunity deferred,
with its dreadful suggestion of other things and thoughts
which might be making progress and nourishing harm,
while she sat here impeded and helpless, and unable to
jirevent it, was perhaps the severest ordeal Mary could
have passed through. It was the same day on which
Winnie went to Carlisle — it was the same evening
on which Hugh received Nelly's letter, which found
his mother motionless in Mr. Penrose's drawing-room,
waiting. This was the hardest of all, and yet not so
hard as it might have been. For she did not know,
what all the servants in the house knew, that Will had
seen her an-ive — that he liad rushed out of the house,
begging the man to deceive her — that he had kept



256 MADONNA MAKY.

away all day, not of necessity, but because he did not
dare to face her. Mary knew nothing of this; but it
was hard enough to contend with the thousand spectres
that surrounded her, the fears of accident, the miser-
able suspense, the dreary doubt and darkness that
seemed to hang over everything, as she waited ever
vainly in the silence for her boy's retixrn.

When some one arrived at the door, her heart
leaped so into her throat that she felt herself suffocated;
she had to put her hands to her side and clasp them
there to support herself as footsteps came up the stair.
She grew sick, and a mist came over her eyes; and
then all at once she saw clearly, and fell back, fainting
in the body, horribly conscious and alive in the mind,
when she saw it was Mr. Penrose, who came in alone.



CHAPTER XIX.

Will had seen his mother arrive. He was coming
downstairs at the moment, and he heard her voice, and
could hear her say, "Tell him it is his mother," and
fright had seized him. If only three days could have
been abrogated, and he could have gone to her in his
old careless way, to demand an account of why she had
come! — but there stood up before him a ghost of
what he had been doing — a ghost of uncomprehended
harm and mischief, which now for the first time showed
to him, not in its real light, but still with an impor-
tance it had never taken before. If it had been hard
to tell her of the discovery he had made before he left
the Cottage, it was tAvcnty times harder now, when he



MADONNA MARY. 257

had discussed it with other people, and taken practical
steps about it. He went out hurriedly, and with a
sense of stealth and panic. And the panic and the
stealth were signs to him of something wrong. He
had not seen it, and did not see it yet, as regarded the
original question. He knew in his heart that there was
no favouritism in Mrs. Ochterlony's mind, and that he
was just the same to her as Hugh — and what could
it matter which of her sons had Earlston? — But still,
nature was stronger in him than reason, and he was
ashamed and afraid to meet her, though he did not
know why. He hurried out, and said to himself that
she was "angry," and that he could not stay in all day
long to be scolded. He would go back to luncheon,
and that would be time enough. And then he began
to imagine what she would say to him. But that was
not so easy. What could she say? After all, he had
done no harm. He had but intimated to Hugh, in the
quietest way, that he had no right to the position he
was occupying. He had made no disturbance about it,
nor upbraided his brother for what was not his broth-
er's fault. And so far from blaming his mother, it
had not occurred to him to consider her in the matter,
except in the most secondary way. What could it
matter to her? If Will had it, or if Hugh had it, it
was still in the family. And the simple transfer was
nijthing to make any fuss about. This was how he
reasoned; but Nature held a different opinion upon the
subject. She had not a word to say, nor any distinct
suggestion even, of guiltiness or wrong-doing to pre-
sent to his mind. She only carried him away out of
the house, made him shrink aside till Mary had passed,
and made him walk at the top of his sj^eed out of the

Miuloiina Mary. II. 1 '



258 MADONNA MARY.

very district in wliicli Mr. Penrose's house was situated.
Because his mother woukl be "angry" — because she
might find fault with him for going away or insist up-
on his return, or infringe his liberty. Was that why
he fled from her? — But Will could not tell — he fled
because he was driven by an internal consciousness
which could not find expression so much as in thought.
He went away and wandered about the streets, think-
ing that now he was almost a man, and ought to be
left to direct his own actions; that to come after him
like this was an injury to him which he had a right to
resent. It was treating him as Hugh and Islay had
never been treated. When he laid himself out for these
ideas they came to him one by one, and at last he suc-
ceeded in feeling himself a little ill-used; but inhisheax't he
knew that he did not mean that, and that Mrs. Ochter-
lony did not mean it, and that there was something
else which stood between them, though he could not
tell what it was.

All this time he contemplated going in, facing his
mother, and being surprised to see her, and putting
up with her anger as he best could. But when mid-
day came, he felt less willing than ever. His reluctance
grew upon him. If it had all come simply, if he had
rushed into her presence unawares, then he could have
borne it; but to go back on purpose, to be ushered in
to her solemnly, and to meet her when her wrath had
accumulated and she had prepared what to say — this
was an ordeal which Will felt he could not bear. She
had grown terrible to him, ajjpalling, like the angel
with the flaming sword. His conscience arrayed her
in such effulgence of wrath and scorn, that his very
soul shrank. She would be angry beyond measure. It



MADONNA MAPvY. 259

was impossible to fancy what she might say or do;
and he could not go in and face her in cold blood.
Therefore, instead of going home, Will went down
hastily to his uncle's office, and explained to him the
position of affairs. "You go and speak to her," said
Will, with a feeling that it was his accomplice he was
addressing, and yet a pang to think that he had him-
self gone over to the enemy, and was not on his na-
tural side; "I am not up to seeing her to-night."

"Poor Mary," said Uncle Penrose, "I should not
be surprised to find her in a sad way; but you ought
to mind your own business, and it is not I who am to
be blamed, but you."

"She will not blame you," said Will; "she will be
civil to you. She will not look at you as she would
look at me. When she is vexed she gives a fellow
such a look. And I'm tired, and I can't face her to-
day."

"It is mail-day, and I shall be late, and she will